Alternate
by otherhawk
Summary: Alternatives and differences. Because even after the end, life has to go on. Somehow.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Ocean's 11**

**Warning: Apparently I'm not yet in the proper festive mood. That or I'm starting my own little tradition. _Believe _me, it could be worse. Anyway, slightly depressing story here.**

* * *

_**This story begins at the ending**_

There is a time when you have to admit that everything has gone wrong and there's nothing more to be done.

Danny knew that everything had gone wrong.

Seemed like Michael Canning was almost enjoying himself, his face twisted with manic glee as he pointed the gun at them.

"You thought I was nothing, didn't you? Just some pathetic putz you could steal from and laugh about. Well, you're not laughing now, are you?"

Danny watched the point of the gun swing back and forth between him and Rusty, and he knew that there was no way to guarantee that he'd be the one hurt. And still he considered just charging forwards, if only to stop the monologuing. It was giving him a headache.

"We could be laughing if you want," Rusty suggested brightly. "Ever hear the one about the mountaineer, the snake and Bob Barker?"

Danny frowned and turned to face him. "Thought it was Alex Trebek?" he asked, and he met Rusty's eyes and they had no plans and no ideas, nothing to do but wait and hope.

"Shut up!" Canning screamed shrilly and it took him a visible effort to calm himself. "Right. So. You like playing games, don't you? Here's a game for you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. "Lets find out who I'm going to kill first."

That wasn't really a game. Certainly it wasn't one that Danny wanted to play. He bit his lip as Canning pointed first at Rusty and then at him. "Heads. Tails," he decided and flipped the coin high in the air.

Unbelievably, fantastically, he fumbled the catch, and with a curse, automatically bent down to retrieve it.

They were already moving. Both of them. Charging forwards at Canning, seizing the opportunity because it was all they had. Best chance and only hope.

Canning looked up.

The gunshot was so very loud and Danny _prayed._

He hit Canning hard, knocking him backwards, and he was alone, he was alone and he shouldn't be, and he grabbed at Canning's hand, pulling at the gun.

The gun fired again.

Canning's blood was warm and Danny found himself clutching the gun and staring down at Canning, white-faced and slumped on the floor.

He spun round quickly, looking desperately. Rusty had been thrown back against the far wall. There was no blood. For one moment of unbearable hope, Danny thought that was good.

Dropping the gun, he ran closer and Rusty's eyes were wide and lifeless, staring at the ceiling. He didn't look peaceful. He didn't look like he'd just fallen asleep.

Danny fell to his knees, and he didn't know who was screaming but it was the most horrible sound he'd ever heard, a wordless, mindless cry of suffering and loss, and his hand was trembling as he reached forwards and his fingers brushed over the jagged, blackened hole in Rusty's shirt.

Rusty loved this shirt. It was garish and outrageous, and Rusty loved it, and he'd be pissed that someone had put a hole in it, so he needed to come back right now so that Danny could promise to buy him a new shirt. Ten new shirts. Anything he wanted.

"Rus'," he pleaded and the tears were falling and he slumped forwards, pulling Rusty tight in his arms. "Rus'..."

On the other side of the room Canning started to make soft choking noises and Danny listened to him die, rocking Rusty's body against himself.

* * *

_**Pause. Rewind. This could go another way.**_

_**

* * *

**_

Rusty figured that Canning was maybe a little smarter than they'd counted on. Also a little angrier. And possibly just a little more batshit crazy.

"You thought I was nothing, didn't you?" Canning said wildly and Rusty fought the urge to nod. Yep. They had. They did. "Just some pathetic putz that you could steal from and laugh about." Well. He was. "You're not laughing now, are you?"

Canning was pointing a gun at Danny. At both of them. And he _hated _when that happened. So, if he was being honest, laughter was about as far from his mind as it ever was. But who wanted to be honest? "We could be laughing if you want," he said and his voice was as cheerful and unconcerned as he could want. "Ever hear the one about the mountaineer, the snake and Bob Barker?"

He was aware of Danny turning to look at him, the banter flowing automatically. "Thought it was Alex Trebek?" Danny's voice said, and Danny's eyes were looking for ideas. He didn't have anything. And neither did Danny. And _that _was always a way to know that things were bad.

"Shut up!" Canning yelled and Rusty watched the vein pulsing in his forehead and wondered just how likely it was that the man would just drop dead of a heart attack. Probably not something they could count on. "Right. So. You like playing games, don't you?" Canning went on with what he probably thought was a sinister smile, and he drew a quarter out of his pocket with a flourish worthy of a Vegas magician. "Lets find out who I'm going to kill first."

_First. _Rusty hated that. Meant there was no chance that it would be him and not Danny. And it wasn't exactly a bright, burning source of comfort that it _also _meant that there was no chance it would be Danny and not him. He wanted it to be neither of them. More than anything. He wanted them to have a chance.

Canning pointed first at Danny and then at him. "Heads. Tails," he decided and silently Rusty cursed. Statistically, on most coins, heads came up slightly more often. Which meant it was slightly more likely that he would have to watch Danny die. And he didn't know if he was brave enough.

Canning threw the quarter high in the air and Rusty's eyes were fixed on it as it span, as it fell, as it slipped through Canning's fingers and Canning followed it towards the floor. Chance. Unbelievable, fantastic chance.

He threw himself towards Canning and Danny was with him, a step ahead of him, seizing the opportunity, taking their moment.

Canning looked up.

The gunshot was so very loud and Rusty _hoped. _

Danny was no longer with him when he crashed bodily into Canning and he punched hard, grabbing at the man's arm, twisting it aside.

The gun fired again.

He heard Canning gasp and he didn't care. He stepped back and let the man fall to the floor at his feet.

He didn't want to look. He didn't want him to look round and he knew that made him a coward.

"Danny?" he said softly and he might well have been talking to an empty room.

Of course he looked round. He had to. Danny had been thrown against the far wall, rag-doll like, limbs twisted unnaturally, eyes wide and staring.

In an instant Rusty was kneeling next to him, not looking at the bullet hole on the front of Danny's shirt, not looking at the still-wound he could see underneath, his fingers searching at Danny's throat for a pulse he already knew wasn't there.

Danny was gone.

It was immense and unthinkable and impossible and he could hear his own voice echoing round the lonely building, a helpless cry of suffering and loss.

"Danny," he whispered, and the tears were falling and he took Danny's hand, raised it to his lips, kissed it, pleading. "Danny..."

On the other side of the room Canning started to make soft choking noises and, without even thinking about it, Rusty raised the gun and fired it at the man until he was quiet. Then he sat very still, clutching Danny's still-warm hand in his.

* * *

_**Things can be the same.**_

_**

* * *

**_

The funeral was like a dream. A nightmare. Danny drifted through it and he felt the crushing weight of everyone's grief, everyone's pity and he didn't know what they expected of him. Tess clutched his hand tightly and he leaned on her more than he should.

Isabel stood apart from the others, her father's hand on her shoulder. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot but she wasn't crying. Defiant and stubborn and proud, Danny thought, and it hurt so very much.

She blamed him. He knew that because she'd told him so. He'd told her, softly and gently and she'd shouted at him, screamed in his face, unbearable grief turning to uncontrollable anger, and it would have been easier, maybe, if Canning had lived. If she'd had someone else to blame. Some purpose, some dream of revenge, some task to soothe the ache in her soul. But she blamed Danny and she blamed Rusty and she said they'd been stupid boys with no idea of the real world, playing ridiculous games and never dreaming of the consequences. He knew it was unfair. _She_ knew it was unfair. But she'd hissed "It's all your fault" and some words can never be unsaid. In the end she'd turned away from him. She wouldn't let him see her cry.

Saul was standing on Danny's other side, Basher's hand on his arm. He wasn't crying either, but he looked old and tired and like he couldn't really understand what was happening.

Saul and Basher were there. And Reuben and Linus and Livingston, Frank and Yen, Turk, Virgil, Bobby and Molly. All there, all telling him how very sorry they were.

Their words meant nothing.

Their presence meant everything.

Danny stared at the grave and tried to understand that Rusty was in there. Tried to understand that he wasn't going to see Rusty ever again. He didn't know how to live with that.

The terms of Rusty's will were pretty simple. Isabel got the apartment and the money. She didn't need them, of course, and Danny didn't know if he was more surprised by the nod to conventionality or the fact that Rusty had any money to leave. He didn't know if Isabel was surprised at all. She wouldn't even glance in his direction and her hands were gripping the arms of her chair like she was afraid she was going to fall off the edge of the world.

Reuben got the hotel and a little note saying that if he even _thought _about redecorating, Rusty would come back and haunt him.

Linus got left the latest incarnation of Rusty's Mustang. With the proviso that he wasn't to let Danny near it. Danny heard himself laugh and wished he hadn't.

Danny, Saul and Isabel got handwritten letters. Danny slipped his into his pocket. For later, he told himself, and he knew he would probably never read it. Would probably never dare. It wasn't like he didn't know what it said. Oh, not the words, maybe, but he knew what Rusty wanted to say. I love you. I'm sorry. Never your fault. I was so happy whenever I was with you. Please don't do anything stupid.

All of that.

Wasn't enough.

* * *

_**And things can be different.**_

_**

* * *

**_

It rained all the way through the funeral. Such a cliché; Rusty was sure Danny would have hated it.

He stood by the graveside and the words washed meaninglessly over his head. Isabel's hand was heavy on his arm like she never wanted to let go. She wanted to hold his hands. He'd stuck his hands in his pocket.

Tess was standing opposite him, surrounded by her family and by her friends. She was being well looked after. Which was good. She looked like she'd never be happy again.

He hadn't told her. He hadn't needed to. She'd read it on his face the moment she saw him in an instant of understanding, and she'd fallen to her knees, sobbing and broken. She'd lashed out at him as he'd tried to come closer, tried to comfort. _"Why?" _she'd screamed, over and over again. "_Why?" _

He hadn't been able to answer. Hadn't had any answers.

In the end she'd clung to him and cried like she was never going to stop.

He shrugged off Saul's gentle hand on his shoulder. Stepped away from the weight of Reuben's hug. Stood apart from all the comfort and companionship and compassion so freely and desperately offered. Wasn't that he didn't appreciate it – he did, he really, truly did – it was just that he didn't know how to keep himself from breaking the moment someone touched him.

He stared unseeingly at the grave. Danny was gone and he was never coming back.

Danny hadn't left a will. Rusty wasn't surprised; he'd already known that. Oh, he knew Danny had _tried, _and he remembered one night and a narrow escape they'd laughed about all the way home. Danny had been drunk – they'd both been drunk – but Danny had been contemplative. "What could I say?" he asked softly. "What could I leave that would possibly be enough for...?" He shrugged and Rusty had known what he'd meant.

He'd stared at Danny fiercely. "Maybe you'd better not leave then."

"Maybe I won't," Danny had smiled lightly. "I promise. I won't leave."

Danny had left. Danny had left him _alone. _

And he knew – of course he knew – that Danny hadn't wanted to, that Danny loved him, that Danny would want him to move on with his life, to be safe and happy.

All of that.

Wasn't enough.

* * *

_**Time goes on...**_

_**

* * *

**_

The days stretched out in front of him, dark and empty and forever.

Danny didn't know anymore how time had passed when Rusty was here. But now that Rusty..._wasn't..._time didn't pass at all. It stagnated and he endured. Barely.

He didn't go out anymore. Not really. He spent his days wandering aimlessly around the house, staring at the walls, trying not to dream of better days, waiting until it got late enough that he could get drunk enough to sleep and not dream.

Some days all he could think of was Rusty's last moments. Wondering if Rusty had known, even for a second. Wondering if it had hurt. Some days he wanted to scream at Rusty. Curse him for being so fucking selfish as to _die _and leave him all alone. Some days he just wanted the chance to hold Rusty close and say goodbye.

Most days he wanted so much more than that.

Tess was frightened for him. He knew that. She wanted to talk and he couldn't and sometimes, when he was holding her, it was all he could do not to cry. She was frightened for him and he could see in her eyes that she was frightened that she wasn't enough.

(_Sometimes he was frightened that she wasn't enough._)

Days and weeks and months. Nothing _changed. _

Sometimes he thought that he was just waiting for the screaming to fade in his soul. Sometimes he thought it never would.

Saul died barely four months after Rusty. It was unexpected and maybe it shouldn't have been. In his sleep. Peaceful. Heart attack, they said, and Danny thought that maybe he just hadn't had quite enough to live for anymore.

Funny. He knew there was supposed to come a time when you mostly only saw your friends at funerals. He just thought he'd have been a little older when it happened.

Five months, six months and he woke up in the middle of the night, terrified that he'd forgotten something, that he'd let some moment, some feeling fall from his memory.

Three o'clock in the morning and there were photos spread out over the living room floor. Not enough photos. He'd never taken enough photos. So many moments uncaptured. He thought of the way Rusty, smiling up at him unexpectedly, laughter sparkling in his eyes, love shining in his soul. He thought of the look Rusty would give him when the teasing went just a bit further than it should, the look that promised consequences. Fun. Eventual forgiveness. He thought of a thousand different expressions, a thousand different looks, a thousand little moments, all for him and all gone. He hadn't taken enough photos.

He might forget.

He might forget everything.

He might forget the way Rusty looked, the way he smiled, the sound of his voice, his laugh...any of that could fall away at any moment.

Tess found him the next morning, dressed and sitting by the front door.

"I need to leave," he told her, soft and uncertain.

She stared at him, her eyes full of hurt. "Don't. Please don't leave me, Danny. _Please."_

"Just for a few days," he promised. "Just to get my head together." He didn't know that he was lying.

"_Danny_," she said, and she was crying and he wasn't listening and the door closed behind him.

He wanted to be alone.

Because he didn't have a choice.

* * *

_**...And on.**_

_**

* * *

**_

Rusty broke up with Isabel three days after Danny's funeral. He could see the hurt in her eyes, the confusion, and she asked him _why _and he didn't have an answer. She said she understood that things were difficult, that it would take time – a lot of time – and he laughed. He didn't understand. He didn't understand _anything. _

"I just don't feel the same anymore," he told her. He didn't tell her that he didn't feel _anything _anymore.

The days stretched out in front of him, dark and empty and forever.

He tried to outrun them. He fled everything safe and everyone familiar and tried to lose himself in a haze of alcohol and stupidity.

He got drunk every night and every day, and he took the sort of risks that would drive Danny crazy with fear and frustration. He took on Vincent Chambers in a game of poker when he was already so drunk he couldn't even see straight.

When he woke up the next morning, aching and alive, he supposed he should be grateful that they couldn't take anything that mattered from him. He closed his eyes and he could see the look on Danny's face, so he turned his attention to finding the next bottle.

Time passed quicker when he didn't know what was going on.

It hurt. It hurt so much and he didn't want to feel anymore. The memories were always there, always in his head, always taunting him. It had been so _good. _They'd been so good. He'd been so fucking happy and he'd lost it all, and sometimes he hated Danny for leaving him and he'd give the rest of his life for one more moment. In a heartbeat.

He whispered Danny's name into the dark and no one ever answered.

Five, six months and he found himself in Vegas. The Bellagio. He sat at the Blackjack table, being as obvious as he knew how, and when Terry came over, Rusty laughed and told him exactly what the count was. There was a moment when he saw pity in Terry's eyes. He couldn't stand that. He could never stand that. The punch was as hard as he knew how, and security had him on the floor before Terry had even blinked. They dragged him away to the little room without cameras, and it wasn't Bruiser who was waiting.

He woke up the next morning, bandaged and dressed in clean pyjamas and lying in Reuben's spare room. He groaned and it wasn't just the hangover. By now he was pretty fucking used to that. No, apparently Terry had beaten the crap out of him and then called his friends. Rusty had no idea whether _that _was meant to be kindness or insult.

Of course he considered just sneaking out. Couldn't quite do it though. He went downstairs. Sat with Reuben, drank black coffee and let Dominic make him breakfast.

Reuben was blunt. "You look like hell, you know that?"

He shrugged. He knew that. He didn't care.

"You think this is what Danny would want for you?" Reuben demanded.

"He lost his say when he got himself killed," Rusty said harshly.

"We're worried about you, Rusty," Reuben said gently, and Rusty wished he didn't care "Me, Saul, Frank, Livingston...everyone. Why don't you stay here for a while?"

"How's Tess?" he asked, after a moment when he was sure he hadn't been thinking about anything.

"She's doing okay," Reuben told him. "It's difficult, but she's doing okay. She asks after you a lot. She'd like to see you."

"Not a chance," Rusty said levelly and Reuben nodded like he wasn't surprised.

"You think this is how you should be remembering Danny?" Reuben asked softly.

Rusty stared at him. "What makes you think I'm not trying to forget?"

Reuben looked like he had no idea what to say.

Rusty left right after breakfast.

He wanted to be alone.

He didn't have a choice.

* * *

_**Maybe there's no rest**_

_**

* * *

**_

A few days turned into a few weeks turned into six months.

He drove all day and all night if he could, zig-zagging across the country, never stopping until he couldn't help it.

The first thing he did every time he woke up was to send a text message to Tess. Promising her that he was alive and he was safe and he was fine and he'd be home as soon as he could.

The last thing he did before he went to sleep was listen to the messages she had left. Soft and pleading, incoherent and crying, angry and hurting...she wanted him to come home. And he didn't know how.

Days and weeks could go by without him saying more than three words to another person. He was almost interested to know if it was possible for him to just forget how to talk. There was nothing he wanted to say. Not to anyone who could hear him.

Sometimes, when he drove fast enough, took his hands off the wheel, closed his eyes – sometimes he could almost pretend that he was sitting in the passenger seat and Rusty was driving and everything was like it should be. Sometimes he could almost be happy.

His car broke down. Couple of days from the nearest town. He had a bottle of water and took to walking.

It was cold at night. He lay back on the sand and the rock and stared up at the distant stars.

He was so lonely.

"I miss you," he said aloud.

The night breeze sounded almost like it was whispering to him.

"I miss you," he said again and he closed his eyes tight and turned away from the cold starlight.

After a while he took out his phone and dialled and he held his breath till Tess answered.

"I don't know what to do," he said softly. "I don't know how to live."

* * *

_**Maybe there's no peace**_

_**

* * *

**_

There was only so long he could hide from himself. Only so long he could run from Danny.

Danny always found him, maybe even when Danny was dead.

So many memories. Everywhere they'd ever been, everything they'd ever dreamed. He couldn't escape it. In the end, he didn't want to.

Sometimes he thought he'd never stop crying. Sometimes it was all he could do to get up in the morning, all he could do to take his next breath. All this time and it seemed impossible that the world was still turning.

It was a warm night and he waited by the shore, gazed out over the Atlantic, the salt stinging his face. He didn't look up at the stars. Not once.

He was so lonely.

"I miss you," he whispered.

Of course there was no answer.

"I miss you," he said again and he didn't try to wipe away the tears.

There was a noise behind him and he looked round to see that Saul had arrived home. He looked so much older than the last time Rusty had seen him but he was staring at Rusty like he'd never been so relieved.

Rusty looked at him and bit his lip. "I don't know what to do," he said softly. "I don't know how to live."

* * *

_**Maybe there's no end.**_

* * *

**Thanks for reading.**


End file.
